There was a symphony of dust
Laid at his feet
For Tuesday

By the ocean
Side, boys of war
And there he
Went aground in tents

Sloppy fabric, he tacked
The four frayed edges
Of the muslim together

Wherein he sat, amidst
The dust, his son excitable,
Indian-style

There, by Tarsus,
By the flicker of a figure
Irate by canvas
On a summer’s day,
Could hear the tourists
Mattaman’s impregnable
Slurs:

God damn the Jews!!
Their hats are incomplete!!